What a Dragon Should Know
Page 4
Dagmar had only a moment to look coldly across the table at her worthless sister-in-law when The Reinholdt stormed back in, Dagmar’s brothers suddenly disappearing in the face of their father’s rage.
The blade of The Reinholdt’s ax slammed into the dining table, the sound of cracking wood scattering the remaining servants. Before Dagmar could speak a word, her father yelled, “You sent a message to that crazy bitch?”
Gwenvael stared at the Queen of Dark Plains and worried. She seemed so weak. Weaker than he’d ever seen her before. And pale, which didn’t fit a warrior queen who spent most of her time outdoors with her troops, killing all those in her way. Her skin had always been golden brown from the sun. Not as brown as Talaith and Izzy, but they were from the deserts of Alsandair where everyone was born in varying shades of brown. Annwyl was not.
Yet these last few months, as her belly grew larger and her twins more active inside her, Annwyl had seemed to have none of the glow of other first-time human mothers he’d seen throughout his travels. Instead, she looked drawn and tired.
“What is it, Annwyl?”
At least she’d finally stopped crying, but now she stood at the window and silently stared down into the courtyard.
“What’s wrong, my queen? You’re not your usual self.”
She smiled. “I’m not your queen.”
“You are when I’m here. And as your loyal and most loving of subjects, I just want to help.”
“I know you do.”
“So what is it, Annwyl? What is it that has you so worried that I’d bet five gold pieces you haven’t even told Fearghus.” When she turned farther away from him, he sat down in one of the sturdy straight-back chairs and held his hand out to Annwyl—he wasn’t fool enough to approach her again when she was in a mood. Not with those damn swords no more than arm’s length from her. “Come tell Gwenvael what you cannot tell my dear—but not nearly as handsome or charming—brother.”
After a long moment, Annwyl took Gwenvael’s hand and allowed him to place her on his lap. He stroked her back while she dug into the pocket of her gown. She handed over the piece of parchment, and Gwenvael immediately looked at the wax seal still stuck to part of it. He didn’t bother immediately reading the letter itself because he’d found that who letters came from mattered almost as much, if not more, than what was actually stated inside.
“Whose seal is this? I don’t recognize it.”
Annwyl let out a sigh. “The Reinholdt.”
“The Reinholdt?” He frowned in thought; then his body jolted. “Good gods! That madman from the north?”
“The very one.”
“Honestly …” He glanced again at the letter. “I didn’t know anyone in the Reinholdt Clan could write.”
Dagmar patiently waited while her father ranted. He must have had another sleepless night, because he lasted longer than usual. Although she was impressed by two things when her father got like this toward her. Not once had he ever touched her in anger or with violence and not once had he ever made his screaming fits personal. While more than one of her sisters-in-law had called her “plain bitch” or “ugly sow” when wittier words had failed them, her father always kept it about his issue. And his issue was usually that Dagmar had overstepped her bounds.
Usually … she had.
When her father finally stopped long enough for her to speak, she said, “I think you underestimate what Queen Annwyl can do for us.”
“Besides bring her love of blood to our door?”
“Father,” she soothed, “you can’t listen to rumor.” She smiled. “That’s my job.”
“Ohhh, you have a job now?” Kikka asked sweetly, all smiles.
And, all smiles herself, Dagmar asked her, “I didn’t know Eymund bought you a new dress. It’s beautiful!”
Her brother Eymund, who’d been conspicuously absent upon their father’s return, walked back into the Main Hall. “What? What new dress?” He glared at his young wife. “New dress?”
Kikka’s glare was almost worth every moment of having to deal with The Reinholdt.
Dagmar turned back to her father and raised her voice to be heard over her brother’s yelling. “Now, Father, I do understand your concerns. But we cannot ignore the kind of ally Queen Annwyl would make. It is believed she has near a hundred legions at her disposal. All of them trained and ready.”
Her father rested his big fists on the table, and Dagmar knew she was no longer talking to the frightening warlord feared throughout the Northlands, but Sigmar Reinholdt. The man who cared greatly for his people and his kinsmen. “It’s Jökull you’re worried about. Isn’t it?” he asked, not looking at her.
“With good reason. We can no longer ignore your brother.”
“I ain’t been ignoring him!”
“He’s increasing his troops, buying them apparently. Your men are clearly preparing for a siege. I want to help and Queen Annwyl allows me that.”
“I don’t need your help, little miss.”
“No. You need hers. And I see no shame in it.”
Her father cleared his throat, glanced around, and muttered, “You know this ain’t ya fault.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t know that. But when she didn’t reply to his statement, her father took a large breath and slowly let it out. “What are we giving her?”
The blade of The Reinholdt’s ax slammed into the dining table, the sound of cracking wood scattering the remaining servants. Before Dagmar could speak a word, her father yelled, “You sent a message to that crazy bitch?”
Gwenvael stared at the Queen of Dark Plains and worried. She seemed so weak. Weaker than he’d ever seen her before. And pale, which didn’t fit a warrior queen who spent most of her time outdoors with her troops, killing all those in her way. Her skin had always been golden brown from the sun. Not as brown as Talaith and Izzy, but they were from the deserts of Alsandair where everyone was born in varying shades of brown. Annwyl was not.
Yet these last few months, as her belly grew larger and her twins more active inside her, Annwyl had seemed to have none of the glow of other first-time human mothers he’d seen throughout his travels. Instead, she looked drawn and tired.
“What is it, Annwyl?”
At least she’d finally stopped crying, but now she stood at the window and silently stared down into the courtyard.
“What’s wrong, my queen? You’re not your usual self.”
She smiled. “I’m not your queen.”
“You are when I’m here. And as your loyal and most loving of subjects, I just want to help.”
“I know you do.”
“So what is it, Annwyl? What is it that has you so worried that I’d bet five gold pieces you haven’t even told Fearghus.” When she turned farther away from him, he sat down in one of the sturdy straight-back chairs and held his hand out to Annwyl—he wasn’t fool enough to approach her again when she was in a mood. Not with those damn swords no more than arm’s length from her. “Come tell Gwenvael what you cannot tell my dear—but not nearly as handsome or charming—brother.”
After a long moment, Annwyl took Gwenvael’s hand and allowed him to place her on his lap. He stroked her back while she dug into the pocket of her gown. She handed over the piece of parchment, and Gwenvael immediately looked at the wax seal still stuck to part of it. He didn’t bother immediately reading the letter itself because he’d found that who letters came from mattered almost as much, if not more, than what was actually stated inside.
“Whose seal is this? I don’t recognize it.”
Annwyl let out a sigh. “The Reinholdt.”
“The Reinholdt?” He frowned in thought; then his body jolted. “Good gods! That madman from the north?”
“The very one.”
“Honestly …” He glanced again at the letter. “I didn’t know anyone in the Reinholdt Clan could write.”
Dagmar patiently waited while her father ranted. He must have had another sleepless night, because he lasted longer than usual. Although she was impressed by two things when her father got like this toward her. Not once had he ever touched her in anger or with violence and not once had he ever made his screaming fits personal. While more than one of her sisters-in-law had called her “plain bitch” or “ugly sow” when wittier words had failed them, her father always kept it about his issue. And his issue was usually that Dagmar had overstepped her bounds.
Usually … she had.
When her father finally stopped long enough for her to speak, she said, “I think you underestimate what Queen Annwyl can do for us.”
“Besides bring her love of blood to our door?”
“Father,” she soothed, “you can’t listen to rumor.” She smiled. “That’s my job.”
“Ohhh, you have a job now?” Kikka asked sweetly, all smiles.
And, all smiles herself, Dagmar asked her, “I didn’t know Eymund bought you a new dress. It’s beautiful!”
Her brother Eymund, who’d been conspicuously absent upon their father’s return, walked back into the Main Hall. “What? What new dress?” He glared at his young wife. “New dress?”
Kikka’s glare was almost worth every moment of having to deal with The Reinholdt.
Dagmar turned back to her father and raised her voice to be heard over her brother’s yelling. “Now, Father, I do understand your concerns. But we cannot ignore the kind of ally Queen Annwyl would make. It is believed she has near a hundred legions at her disposal. All of them trained and ready.”
Her father rested his big fists on the table, and Dagmar knew she was no longer talking to the frightening warlord feared throughout the Northlands, but Sigmar Reinholdt. The man who cared greatly for his people and his kinsmen. “It’s Jökull you’re worried about. Isn’t it?” he asked, not looking at her.
“With good reason. We can no longer ignore your brother.”
“I ain’t been ignoring him!”
“He’s increasing his troops, buying them apparently. Your men are clearly preparing for a siege. I want to help and Queen Annwyl allows me that.”
“I don’t need your help, little miss.”
“No. You need hers. And I see no shame in it.”
Her father cleared his throat, glanced around, and muttered, “You know this ain’t ya fault.”
Unfortunately, she didn’t know that. But when she didn’t reply to his statement, her father took a large breath and slowly let it out. “What are we giving her?”
